


i’ll put a pause on resentment if you’ve got a broken love in your heart

by soldierwitch



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Bellamy Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:26:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6793570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldierwitch/pseuds/soldierwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>canon compliant up to 3x14. bellamy pov. what if bellamy had been the one to put the commander’s chip in clarke’s hand before she woke?</p>
<p> <i>Sine pari. Clarke has carved a space into his heart with her words, and her gestures…and god, her touch. She feels like home. Like his mother was, like his sister is. And he doesn’t…he isn’t…love is not a word he knows how to use outside of family. Outside of blood. She is water. He should feel adrift and yet she is his anchor.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	i’ll put a pause on resentment if you’ve got a broken love in your heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is a product of my inability to let the thought of bellamy putting the chip in clarke's hand go which then spiraled into a bellamy centric piece about the women in his life and how they make him feel. i'm not really sure what this is, but i like it and i hope you like it, too.

Bellamy wakes and his eyes immediately search for Octavia. The habit has not been broken by her fists even though she has made every effort to break the tie that binds them together. Even now it pulls taut as his gaze lands on her. She is lying on her side, her back facing him. _Will she always turn her back on me_ , he wonders. Bellamy knows the thought is unfair, but he misses his sister. He’s familiar with mourning the dead. Their absence echoes in the holes they left behind. The unfinished conversations, unspoken words, and empty bedsides are weights he has shouldered since his mother kissed his cheeks with tears in her eyes and whispered, ‘may we meet again.’ Since he laid children to rest, their smiles and laughter–their broken bones and speared chests, fevered brows, and cold necks. Since Gena died both a victim and a hero’s death. Bellamy has lived so long with ghosts dogging his steps. He is used to despair and tragedy and the unfairness of life, but mourning the living has bittered his tongue and flavored his words.

Each sentence he speaks to Octavia is soured by her dismissals and her hatred and the repetition of ‘you’re dead to me’ running like a film reel in his mind. He wants to tell her that he loves her and that he has bled, killed, murdered, and sold pieces of his soul for her because their mother molded him into a soldier. Semper fidelis. She drilled commands into his head. Semper paratus. Taught him militant vigilance. Nec recisa recedit. All in effort to protect his sister. Bellamy doesn’t know how to turn the switch of responsibility off when it comes to Octavia. She will always–he pushes off the ground and looks to his left– _almost_ always come first, his soul be damned. The pin prick of betrayal stings his heart as he looks upon Clarke. Her back is turned to him, too, but while Octavia straightened his spine, the sight of Clarke releases the tension in his weary frame. He still hears bombs when he thinks of the two of them, of how far Clarke will go to protect him, his sister’s charred corpse at her feet if need be, but she is a comfort he cannot deny himself. And he has tried. Bellamy has raged. He has come close to hate and near to despise, but when he looks at Clarke those feelings fall away and all that is left is sadness and an ache he never thought he’d know.

Sine pari. Clarke has carved a space into his heart with her words, and her gestures…and god, her touch. She feels like home. Like his mother was, like his sister is. And he doesn’t…he isn’t…love is not a word he knows how to use outside of family. Outside of blood. She is water. He should feel adrift and yet she is his anchor. The months spent without her were like drowning. Suffocating slowly. Sinking in the sand. And it was unfair to Gena and unfair to himself but life has never been fair and he has always needed too much. To serve, to protect, to fall recklessly upon his sword. To bleed, and bleed, and bleed until he can bleed no more. Men like him are worthy of nothing else. Soldiers to the slaughter. The chopping block. He has no laurels in his hair, and the crown he took for himself weighs heavy with every grave he’s made and marked with blood on his hands. But still there is Clarke. By his side. At his back and at his front, guiding him like a compass. They both leave death in their wake. It is their lot and their fate.

Bellamy bends to pick up the case lying in the space between him and Clarke. The skull is fitting he thinks considering it protects the ‘soul’ of a woman unafraid to let her own people burn. He sneaks a glance at Clarke before he slides the lid open, checking to see if the chip has been returned to them. It sits on a piece of dark fabric. Deceivingly innocuous. Bellamy closes the lid with a sigh. Lexa. Woman king. Oath breaker. Wordsmith. Betrayer. He loathes her for being the thorn in his side. For forcing him and Clarke to lower the scythe and end a world. He has become Death thrice fold and twice it has been because of her. She had always chosen her people and he has always chosen his. That is the only thing he cannot fault her for. The only thing he is willing to find common ground on though he knows there is one more. Clarke has spent her quiet moments turning the chip over and over with restless fingers and a distracted mind. She has panicked at the thought of its loss. Bellamy has not forgotten the way she yelled, “It’s Lexa,” when Jasper nearly destroyed it. There was love in her voice that she could not hide. Desperate, aching, anxious love. He knows that feeling. Has heard his own voice echo in the woods with words on what they… _he_ could not lose. It’s what drives him to put the case in her hand and stand guard over her and his sister, his eyes sweeping quickly over Jasper for any signs of waking. Semper vigilans.

When Clarke wakes he knows that she is going to check for the chip but knowledge does not stop his jaw from clenching. Lexa is a ghost that haunts her. Like Finn, like Wells, like her father. But the chip is a reminder of the divide between them. The land that he cannot cross. Clarke’s grief is her own, and he cannot sympathize and he does not want to. Bellamy will not mourn a woman who left his people to die. Who despite her betrayal expected them to submit and heel at her feet. He does not know the woman that Clarke knew. All he knows is the chaos that she threw into their lives. The upheaval she left in her wake. The death toll. But for Clarke he will put his feelings aside because Lexa is dead and death is final. She does not need his anger and his bitterness over a woman they will never see again. It will not fix the rift between them, and it will not heal their wounds. So, Bellamy tempers his resentment and watches as relief draws Clarke’s shoulders down before she turns to look at him. There is thankfulness in her eyes and he nods in acceptance. Communitate valemus. The living must always move on and move past, and he will do so with Clarke because he needs her. She is the light on the horizon, the promise of a new day, and he has spent enough time without her to know that what he feels will never fade.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. you can find me over at [asoldierwitch](http://www.asoldierwitch.tumblr.com) on tumblr. stop by and drop me a line.


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